


Three Cities Trevor

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Assassin!Victor, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Munich. Lisbon. London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Munich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesnuffles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisLestrange/pseuds/AlexisLestrange)! It took me forever to figure out what I was going to write for you, and I actually thought about this idea a lot, so when nothing else came to mind, I decided to give it a try. I really hope you like it!
> 
> Also, because the first go at it didn't end up the way I wanted, I'll be working on and posting one new chapter a week; tags will be changed as we go to avoid spoilers. I hope you don't mind. :)

Munich is cold.  
  
This is the first thing on Victor’s mind as he wakes.  
  
The second is that he should have worn more than just his boxers to bed.

He closes his eyes against the gray light coming in through the window. His room is white, almost blindingly so, and although the light is dim, it reflects off every surface. He pulls the plush duvet up over his head, conserving what heat is left where he had been lying, and dreads having to get up and go to work.  
  
Still, Victor manages to do so. When he can’t stand the boredom of lying there fully awake, he pushes the duvet off to the other side of the bed and swings around so that he is upright, his feet firmly on the cold concrete of the floor. He shivers and debates taking the overly-luxurious high thread count sheet with him, but ultimately leaves it on the bed; he does so hate to have messy sheets when there is no one to share them with.  
  
Once his eyes have cleared properly, he stands, stretching his arms up toward the ceiling, then turns his hips to either side. He slides his feet into a pair of ridiculously large slippers, then heads to the kitchen.  
  
The flat he’s been provided with is nice. He hadn’t had a chance to give it a thorough once-over; his flight had been delayed considerably, and he’d arrived in Munich a full five hours later than he was supposed to. Once he’d been directed toward the flat, he’d only had enough presence of mind to strip and collapse onto the bed.  
  
But, now, he is able to look around. The kitchen, also sparklingly white, is equipped with state-of-the-art utensils. The brushed aluminum of the refrigerator and stove add no color. Victor almost wishes they were pink or green, just so he won’t have to look at boring old white for the next six months.  
  
There is a basket on the table in the living area, filled with food, wine, and other essentials. There is also a card attached, but Victor does not read it. He knows who the basket is from. Among other things is a box of tea bags, and Victor takes these out and starts boiling water in the (white) kettle provided.  
  
Also on the table is a newspaper, _The London Times_. It is folded in half and face-down; the only reason Victor knows it is the _Times_ is because of the title at the bottom of the front page. He does not flip it over. Instead, the kettle whistles, and Victor pours himself a (again, white) cup of tea.  
  
One sugar, a splash of cream. He stands in the kitchen, savoring the taste. It is his favorite brand, and he is once again thankful that he has friends in the business who take notice.  
  
There is a television just above the dining table. He sits down in the chair in front of it, turning so that he can face it as he turns it on with the remote. Luckily, it is plugged in and works fine. The channel it’s been left on is the nature channel, and Victor chuckles at the thought of some criminal mastermind watching cute kittens and puppies.  
  
He flips the channel to the news which, surprisingly, is not in German. In fact, the anchors appear to be those from BBC News in London. He pays little mind to it, listening with one ear as he inspects the rest of the items in the gift basket. Biscuits, popcorn, ammo, sweets. He opens a sleeve of biscuits and eats one or two, then turns back around toward the television with his tea.  
  
The headline is bold and covers the entire lower half of the screen, but he does not read it. The sports anchor is interrupted as a light flashes at the bottom of the screen, indicating that something new has come up. This, Victor pays attention to.  
  
“Breaking news. The self-proclaimed consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes—“

Victor smiles.  
  
“—Is dead. He committed suicide by jumping from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital—“  
  
The television fades into silence. The hum from the refrigerator is gone. The teacup in Victor’s hand falls to the ground and breaks against the concrete, spilling the tea all over the floor, but making no sound. The only thing Victor can hear is the blood pumping through his ears.  
  
And still the world turns. The anchors keep speaking words he can’t hear, showing video footage of a stretcher, then a body bag, and ultimately a coroner’s car. There is an interview with a man; his name and the words “friend of the deceased” are at the bottom of the screen. After his interview, the shot returns to the anchor, and a story about a heroic dog begins.  
  
Victor doesn’t see this. He falls to his knees long before the dog story, before the interview, before the video footage. The tea has slowly spread out so far that it touches his leg, his feet, but he doesn’t feel it. The cold of the concrete is nonexistent against his skin. His hands rest limply on his thighs, palms up and cupped. His mouth is a small O, his eyes half-lidded, and it is several seconds before he buries his face in his hands, leaning over so far that his hair brushes against his knees.  
  
He does not cry. There aren’t any tears left for him to cry even if he wanted to. He is empty, broken, straight down to his soul. The void in his chest swallows him whole, and the steady pulse of blood passing through his ears is all he can hear. It is amplified; it becomes so loud that his eardrums might burst from the sound, and he puts his hands over them to shut it out, to make it stop, but it keeps pounding, and there’s nothing he can do, and he’d rather be dead, because if he were dead at least he wouldn’t have to feel any of this—  
  
But then it stops. Victor hears the television, not his pulse, and he can feel the wetness of cold tea on his leg and the discomfort of the floor against his knees.  
  
Still, he kneels, his hands holding his face, crying dry tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fear! The end will be happy, I promise!


	2. Lisbon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that Victor is a genius in his own right, but in a completely different way from Sherlock. 
> 
> This is so far away from my normal sort of thing, but I really liked doing something a bit different!

Victor runs behind the largest building on the grounds, unloading the magazine from his gun as he inserts another. It is dark; so dark, in fact, that he cannot see the infiltrator. But he knows there is only one person—there are but two pairs of footsteps: his own, and whoever else is out there.  
  
This has been the base for the criminal network, a former metalworking plant. Victor has never seen it before save in a crudely-drawn map, not until now. He has simply been paid to kill whomever was on his list, and kill he certainly has. All contact has been limited to online chats and video discussions with someone only one step above him on the chain, and now that the network is being taken apart limb from limb, there is less and less contact.  
  
The intruder is his last kill. Once they’re dead, Victor’s contract is up, and he’s free to move on to another job. One with a much lower profile, which is very good, and significantly less pay, which isn’t so good. But it’ll mean less people after him, and he won’t have to worry so much about watching his own back when he’s not technically on the job.  
  
When the magazine is reloaded, Victor takes a moment to listen. There is no crunching of gravel or swish of grass. He chances a look around the corner of the building, but his eyes can’t focus on a single object. There is not enough light, not after the breaker box was destroyed.  
  
To be fair, it had been hard to see to begin with. It wasn’t entirely Victor’s fault that his aim was a bit off.  
  
He pulls his hat down further against his face, keeping his jacket collar up high. It is hot tonight, unbearably so, but the cover the black clothes offer is more important than the risk of heatstroke. He knows his opponent doesn’t have a weapon; they would have used it on him by now if they had. His risk is low, but the sooner this person is dead, the sooner he can move on.  
  
There is a creaking sound; faint, but distinguishable to Victor’s trained ears. He stays close to the sides of the building, following the direction of the sound. The door to the building is locked shut; it does not move when Victor tries the handle, and it makes no sound. There aren’t any chains or stray pieces of metal around.  
  
But he can hear breathing, and it isn’t his own.  
  
Victor stays frozen where he is for a total of three seconds. The intruder is approximately four feet away, and judging on their breathing rate, they don’t know Victor is this close. They oscillate on the gravel—there is a faint crunching; the smaller gravel pieces closer to the main path, so Victor was right in his guess at their distance—and then there is no sound.  
  
After a quick glance around, Victor sees something shine—the top of their head. Around six feet—more than likely a man, then, which could pose trouble if things turned into a brawl. Granted, Victor is taller than that, but a few inches wouldn’t matter when it came down to it.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
The word is a whisper, and the minute the man speaks it, he knows he’s given himself away.  
  
This is when Victor attacks.  
  
He doesn’t reach for his gun. When the range is this close, it’s best to save your bullets until you have him on the ground and can put it between his temples. At least, that’s Victor’s motto. He always does prefer hand-to-hand combat over a weapon, especially when his victim is unarmed.  
  
There is a slight crunch of gravel as Victor lunges forward, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and pulling him backward. He lands with a thud, but before Victor can secure him, he’s popped up and standing again—there is more movement on the gravel as he steadies himself.  
  
The moon provides a faint amount of light, but Victor’s not stupid enough to punch blindly into the dark. He stands and he waits for the intruder to come to him.  
  
Which, luckily, doesn’t take long.  
  
A fist connects with Victor’s back—interesting; he hadn’t heard the man move—and he grunts as he staggers forward. Victor twists around, kicking his assailant in (presumably) the stomach and sends him stumbling. But, once again, the man is back on his feet quickly. If nothing else, Victor has to hand it to the bloke; he doesn’t give up. He decides he’ll play along a little longer and listens for footsteps.  
  
Except they don’t come.  
  
Before he knows it, Victor is on his back in the gravel, an iron bar against his chest and someone bending down over him. He chuckles a bit and allows it, but only for a few moments. It’s been a while since someone’s been able to pin him down properly. A long while.  
  
A second later, he bends his knees back and kicks his feet up—hard—into a chest. the person on top of him get sent back into the gravel, and Victor is on his feet, using the tip of the iron bar to press into their chest, keeping them pinned to the ground. His victim struggles, trying to push the bar away, but Victor digs it deeper into his chest, just below the sternum, and he cries out.  
  
Definitely a man, then.  
  
“I thought we might have a bit of fun tonight,” Victor sighs. “But I guess I’ve caught you too early, little fish.”  
  
The struggling stops, and Victor nearly laughs— _playing dead? honestly?_ —but the voice that comes next is so quiet, so soft.  
  
“Victor?”  
  
The iron bar goes through Victor’s own heart.  
  
“W-Will? But you were—I saw—“  
  
Victor’s grip on the bar goes slack, and Sherlock pushes it away easily, coughing as he sits up. He can see a shine of blood on Sherlock’s shirt where the bar had pressed into him, but Sherlock bats his hand away as Victor reaches to touch it.  
  
“I need the coordinates,” he says, his voice—that beautiful, beautiful velvety voice—almost hoarse. “I need to know where he is.”  
  
It takes Victor a few moments to process. Sherlock. Alive. Here. Infiltrator. Kill. “Who?”  
  
“Moriarty.”  
  
“I don’t know who that is.”  
  
Sherlock is silent save for his heavy breathing before he murmurs, “Who do you think you work for?”  
  
“I don’t know anyone’s name.” Victor reaches for his gun slowly and flicks the safety off.  
  
“How do they tell you who to kill? How do you know who you’re supposed to—“  
  
Victor raises his gun, pointing it straight ahead of him, one finger on the trigger. “They send me messages or video chats. I don’t know. I’ve never been given a name.”  
  
Sherlock must notice the glint of metal. “What are you—“  
  
Victor pulls the trigger.  
  
A body falls to the ground.  
  
Sherlock turns to look behind him.  
  
“The shack over there—that’s where the offices were.” Victor points to Sherlock’s left. “That’s your best bet. We were the only two out tonight.” He glances at the body in the gravel. “I don’t know anything else.”  
  
Sherlock turns to go, but Victor grabs his arm. “William?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
The moonlight reflects off Sherlock’s hair. It’s long, down to his shoulders, and—god, he has facial hair! His eyes are sad, his flawless face a little more lined. He looks so old, Victor thinks, but the idea doesn’t make him laugh this time.  
  
“Be safe,” he whispers finally.  
  
Sherlock smiles and heads for the shack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am probably the worst at writing actiony scenes, so please be forgiving with this one! I have no idea if anything portrayed here would actually be something ~~anyone~~ a highly-paid assassin would do.


	3. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter contains some rather graphic violence. It's only a short section, and it isn't necessary to the storyline, so if you'd like to skip it, that's fine.

Victor runs his hand over the scars, over the wounds that haven’t quite healed yet. The bed is disheveled; the room reeks of sweat and sex—though “reeks” may be a bit too harsh a word, Victor thinks. He hasn’t smelledd anything more beautiful in two years.  
  
Sheets tangle between legs and torsos and arms. Sherlock’s hair has lost its curl; instead, small, frizzy, sweat-soaked tufts stick up in every direction. Victor reaches up to play with it, giggling into a pillow at the pout Sherlock makes. He runs his toe along Sherlock’s calve before throwing his leg over him.  
  
He can’t remember when they first fell into bed, but there had been a small bit of light through the closed blinds when they had. Now, it was dark, and the only light they had came from alarm clocks and mobile phones that had long been ignored.  
  
If someone asked Victor if he thought he’d see Sherlock today of all days, he would have laughed. He’s been back in London for a total of three days, having had a brief stunt working for a mafia boss in Rome, but things have started to settle down again. He’s turned down a job for the first time, opting instead for a bit of relaxation and some time to recoup.  
  
Neither have happened, of course. That is apparently too much to ask for.  
  
But when Sherlock turned up outside his door, his hair cut, his beard shaved, and looking for all the world the same man Victor had known two years previous, Victor was stunned—again, an understatement. Whatever happened in Lisbon seemed a distant memory, and they stood on the landing for a long while, holding each other.  
  
Lisbon seemed like a dream. They had only been close to each other for such a brief period of time, and Victor had been trying to kill Sherlock for most of it. To be honest, the day after their run-in, he wasn’t even entirely sure he’d seen Sherlock at all.  
  
And yet, there he was, on his doorstep and most certainly alive.  
  
The hug led to kissing, and kissing to touching, and touching to fumbling off clothes. Somehow they managed to get to Victor’s bedroom, and once that happened… well.  
  
Neither of them have said a word. Sherlock hasn’t offered any sort of explanation for his disappearance, and Victor hasn’t asked. It didn’t seem like the right time, not yet. Besides, there was only one reason why Sherlock had been in Portugal, and it certainly wasn’t for Victor.  
  
Now, though, there is still no talking. That’s always been a rule; the bed isn’t for pillow talk. But with their respective professions, it’s very rare indeed that either Victor or Sherlock have to say anything.  
  
The novelty of being back together is wearing off quickly—that, or they’re just rather tired. Sherlock closes his eyes and folds his hands over his chest, his usual sign of wanting to sleep.  
  
Victor can’t allow that, though.  
  
He reaches across and plants another kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock kisses back, but weakly, and he doesn’t move when it’s over.  
  
Victor traces one scar in particular on Sherlock’s chest. It’s still bright red, and Sherlock shivers as his finger grazes it. The iron bar had been just over that scar, and Victor wonders if Sherlock had had it before their encounter.  
  
Something burns on his flesh in the same place as Sherlock’s scar. He wants to kill them. He wants to kill every single one of those fuckers who put their knives in Sherlock, who beat him, who whipped him, who burned him, who broke his bones. He wants them dead, and he wants to do it to them, hundreds of times worse than what they’d done to Sherlock. Victor has never been one for torture, but now?  
  
Now, he might consider it.  
  
Sherlock stills Victor’s hand, taking it in his own. His eyes are open and trained on Victor, and they stare at each other for a moment. Victor knows Sherlock’s reading him. He doesn’t hide what he’s sure is written on his face.  
  
Instead of speaking, though, Sherlock turns Victor’s hand over, inspecting it. It’s his right, and the callus on his index finger is proof that it’s the hand he holds his gun with. But Sherlock knows that; he’s seen Victor use that hand with guns and pens more often than Victor can count.  
  
It’s several minutes before Sherlock focuses on Victor’s smallest finger. There’s a scar on the outside edge; not large, but deep enough that it had required stitches. Victor doesn’t remember this, at first. Sherlock brings it to his lips, ghosting a kiss across the raised skin and not breaking eye contact.  
  
Victor opens his mouth, about to ask what Sherlock is doing, and then he remembers.  
  
The broken teacup.  
  
When Victor had finally been able to pull himself up from the floor after the news report, he needed something to do. So, he started cleaning up his mess, and in the process, one of the ceramic shards had cut his finger. Blood and tea in the same puddle hadn’t been a very pretty sight, and Victor had had to improvise a bandage with a wad of toilet paper until one of his coworkers had shown up and given him two stitches to close it up. It’s hardly the worst injury he’d ever had, but it _is_ the most recent.  
  
And it’s the only one Sherlock hasn’t seen before.  
  
“Will,” Victor begins.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes shine, and he doesn’t let go of Victor’s hand. He treats it gently, but holds it close to his chest, not looking away from Victor’s eyes. It takes Victor a few moments, but then he realizes it.  
  
Sherlock’s apologizing.  
  
Victor shakes his head, trying to yank his hand back, but Sherlock’s grip is firm. If he really wanted to, Victor could out-muscle him with no problem, but Sherlock appears to be serious, so he merely adjusts himself, turning to face Sherlock fully.  
  
Their faces are only inches away now. From this angle, Victor can see Sherlock’s face better, and he looks like a beaten puppy. But it isn’t his “feel sorry for me” face. It’s the face Victor’s only seen once or twice, the face that means Sherlock feels genuine remorse.  
  
And that breaks Victor’s heart.  
  
 _It was just a cut._  
  
He cups the side of Sherlock’s face with his free hand and leans up to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock brings Victor’s other hand up to his cheek, then looks up at Victor sadly.  
  
Victor just gives him a small smile, scooting close enough that the tips of their noses touch. Sherlock is home, and Sherlock is alive, and, frankly, that’s all Victor could ever want. His heart is overflowing with happiness, and right now, he just wants Sherlock close.  
  
They don’t speak about the scars again.

____________________

  
A month later, seven Serbian men are found dead in a basement. The floor is soaked in blood, and the bodies are lined up on their backs on the floor in neat groups of three and four.  
  
Each has a bullet in the middle of their forehead, a gash across their throat through the jugular, and third-degree burns to their torso and arms.  
  
In some cases, when the killer felt merciful, the bullet came first.  
  
In most cases, when he did not, it came last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex, I hope you've liked this as much as I've liked writing it! :)


End file.
